


The Roads are the Dustiest

by astudyinpanda



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt Minimal Comfort, Interrogation, Sleep Deprivation, Spoilers, Torture, Whump, pro-Railroad, sole survivor gender unspecified
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 02:23:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5565598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astudyinpanda/pseuds/astudyinpanda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deacon gets separated from the pro-Railroad sole survivor after Railroad HQ is raided. He runs right into the Brotherhood of Steel, whose official response to confusion is violent interrogation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Roads are the Dustiest

Deacon was a man used to bad decisions and scary situations, and he'd never been this terrified. Stumbling through a sewer in the dark while dragging Drummer Boy wasn't a great way to spend an evening, even when his back and legs hadn't recently been on fire. And they had been.

Drummer Boy's arm pulled tight against the side of Deacon's neck. The dude was little, but he was mostly muscle. "They're getting closer."

The angry snapping of Institute laser pistols did sound louder now than it had a few minutes ago. "I'm going as fast as I can," Deacon muttered just loud enough to be heard over his splashing footsteps. "Pretty sure you are too."

Drummer Boy's laugh was little more than a breath out through his teeth. He'd caught a laser blast in the shoulder during the initial assault on the Railroad's new, "safe" headquarters in the Old North Church catacombs. The shock of it, or another panicking agent, had pushed Drummer Boy right into one of the big stone coffins. If they made it out, Deacon would enjoy recounting that for a laugh.

Drummer Boy fucked up his knee when he landed, though, so for now it wasn't much of a joke. And G1 synths shot an agent dead on either side of the coffin. That fall saved Drummer Boy's life. Yeah, it wasn't much of a joke at all.

Even though Deacon's back and legs hurt like hell and were only going to get worse after slogging through their fetid escape tunnel, he was luckier than most of the Railroad agents caught at HQ when the Institute hit the place. Only two or three shots had grazed him, and he was still moving.

They burst out of the short side tunnel and into an empty apartment with three walls. This was Deacon's favorite exit, because other people stayed on the main line and took a closer way out. He should have followed the vault dweller, probably, but that group was traveling a lot faster than him at the moment.

Drummer Boy tottered toward the three-legged chair in the corner of the former kitchen, but Deacon held onto his arm. "Can't stop yet. We're still too close. Come on."

The two of them staggered along a route Deacon had been visualizing and perfecting for months. Drummer Boy was getting heavier. "I'm not going to make it much further," he said.

Deacon opened his mouth to offer an encouragingly exaggerated assessment of their chances, but stopped talking and walking instead. Three Brotherhood of Steel soldiers, two in full power armor and one just in uniform, stood at the entrance to the alley he'd turned down. All of them pointed fancy laser rifles right at Deacon and Drummer Boy.

Deacon sighed. "When you're right, you're right."

"Stop where you are," said one of the ones in power armor. The helmet made her voice sound like she was on Diamond City Radio instead of three steps away from him.

"Oh thank God," Deacon said. "You've got to get in there. They're killing everybody."

"Who is? Where?" asked the first speaker, and Deacon would have smiled if that wouldn't have given him away.

"Synths!" He channeled his inner DJ Travis to sell some civilian-level panic. "They have laser rifles like yours and they're shooting everybody! We found this nice sewer, got out of the rain, and now they're all dying. You have to help them!"

The helmets hid all facial clues about how well he was convincing the two in power armor. The scribe, or whatever they called the ones who didn’t get power armor suits, was glancing anxiously between Deacon, the power armored soldiers, and the road behind them. The street was too quiet. If the damned G1s had been blazing away out there, it would have lent credence and urgency to his story. Drummer Boy shuffled to get more weight off of his hurt knee and kept his mouth shut like Deacon taught him to. In the distance, big green mutant hounds howled over found prey.

"We'll check it out," soldier who did all the talking said.

The helmetless scribe's brows relaxed in visible relief, and Deacon's did too, until the scribe said "Ma'am, we should hold these men for questioning, and they need medical care."

"Thanks, but we'll be fine once we get somewhere safe," Deacon said, even though his opinion would not be part of the Brotherhood's decision. All three were still pointing guns at him.

"Agreed," the one addressed as ma'am said. "Secure them here, pending extraction. Don't waste anything that's hard to replace." Because helping a wastelander survive the wasteland was like throwing meds in the river, as far as the Brotherhood was concerned. Charming people.

"Hey, we just need to rest for a minute. We'll be fine," Deacon said. "There are a _lot_ of synths back there. It would take a whole platoon of you guys to get them all."

The power armored ones were already stomping forward. He had to haul Drummer Boy to one side to give them room to pass in the narrow alley. "We'll call it in," one of the armored ones said, "but I don't think it'll be a problem."

Two down, one left. The weedy scribe holstered his laser pistol. "I'm Scribe Jorvik. While I'm treating your wounds, tell me about who you are and what happened here."

Not "please tell me" or "could you tell me," of course. It wasn't a request. Deacon held onto that annoyance, because he was going to need it to bash this helpful scribe guy in the head so he and Drummer Boy could catch up with Desdemona and the vault dweller. Deacon wasn't interested in being "secured" or "extracted," especially if the soldiers made it all the way through the sewers to HQ and realized that Deacon and Drummer Boy were Railroad. That wouldn't go well.

"I'm Benny, and this one with the hurt knee is Max," Deacon said. The scribe crouched to examine "Max's" knee. Blood had soaked through Drummer Boy's torn pant leg and it looked at least as bad as it must've felt. "Thank you so much for stopping to help--" Deacon's boot thudded against the scribe's temple. The little hat that Brotherhood scribes wore flew off his head and landed in a pile of garbage. He went down like a sack of fertilizer.

Deacon hauled Drummer Boy in the opposite direction of the power-armored soldiers. His burns had apparently gotten used to that whole standing still thing, because they flared up bright and angry. "This is going to suck, but we really have to move, Drummer Boy." Drummer Boy just grunted and focused on hopping as fast as he could. Poor bastard.

They reached the open street at the end of the alley. Deacon turned them toward the emergency meeting place where Desdemona and the others should have at least left a sign of what they'd do next. The Mercer safehouse might not be compromised yet. It was a long haul, but maybe they'd meet up with the others on the way, and Deacon could get somebody else to carry Drummer Boy. The vault dweller might need his help.

"We found soot marks on the walls, but the synths must have... Jorvik?" The power armored officer was in the alley behind them.

Deacon heard her clearly, which meant she was too close for him and Drummer Boy to get away together. He chalked the Railroad sign for "sympathizer inside" on the side of a dumpster and, as quietly as he could, heaved Drummer Boy into it. "Stay here. If I'm not back in a couple of hours, get to Mercer."

"Deacon, don't." Drummer Boy moaned and failed to climb out of the dumpster. "They'll kill you as dead as the synths would."

Deacon grinned. "Only if they catch me." He shut the dumpster lid silently, then forced his burned legs into a run.

Each step tugged on skin that was barely there anymore. Drummer Boy would owe him big for this. Maybe Deacon could talk him into stealing something from Tinker Tom's stash of cool weapons. Tom would never suspect Drummer Boy. Going through Tom's arsenal in his head while he ran, while looking out for the usual wasteland hazards, stopped him from feeling some of the burns. He had to find cover before--

A laser automatic rifle blasted behind him. His hip flared with pain and gave out, landing him in an ungainly faceplant in the middle of the street. He may have shrieked a bit, but God, that hurt.

Two pairs of heavy metal footsteps were coming his way. If he drew down on them, they'd kill him. If he stood up, they'd kill him. He curled onto the side that didn't smell like overdone Brahmin steak to at least look them in the eyes as they reached for him. "All right. You caught me."

The one in front grabbed him by his shirt collar and hauled him all the way off the ground. Behind her, the scribe was draped over the other power armored soldier's shoulder, held in place with the arm that wasn't pointing a gun at Deacon. "Where's your friend?" the officer holding him asked.

"Long gone." Deacon hoped his expression looked more like an angry grimace than a pained one. His shirt felt like it was ripping skin off his back. "He ditched me. Guess he wasn't hurt that bad."

"Figures." She pulled the pistol out of Deacon's belt, crushed it in one power armored fist, and dropped it on the asphalt. He followed it with his eyes. He'd liked that gun. "Well, we only need one of you to find out what happened back there." And again, he could have smiled, because they weren't going to look for Drummer Boy now. Damn, was he good at what he did.

The Brotherhood officer threw him onto the street. The impact knocked the breath out of him and split his lip against his teeth. He was wheezing and coughing too hard to deliver a comeback while she clamped his hands behind him with something metal and unyielding. She slung him over her shoulder like the unconscious scribe was on the other soldier.

"Back to base," the officer said. They set off at a loping, clomping jog. Each step tore Deacon's burns open all over again. Blood from his split lip trickled over the dirty chrome armor in front of his face.

Drummer Boy knew what Deacon was doing. Assuming he made it to Mercer Safehouse and Mercer was still safe, he'd get the word out. And the vault dweller would come to the rescue. Deacon hoped so, anyway. If he'd managed to hide the absolute worst of himself.

If the vault dweller _did_ rescue him, Deacon would confess everything. His worst secret of all. Honesty was the one currency that the vault dweller might accept from him. Well, that or free sex, but the vault dweller could get better, cleaner fun than Deacon could offer, dead spouse notwithstanding. There were no more closely guarded secrets than his.

Vertibird rotors chopped the air above them. If the cavalry didn't ride in to save Deacon, well... He'd earned whatever was coming to him.

 

The first day, all they did was hose him down (pressurized water on raw laser burns left him screaming and naked on a wet tile floor) and slap some goop on the laser burns (which dulled the pain, finally). Then they left him alone in a cell with blinding bright light and a repeating song on the loudest speakers they had. It was one he sometimes heard on the radio, about how bees were buzziest back home, or some ridiculous shit. Bees were tiny bloatfly/stinger crossbreeds, according to what Deacon read in books. Not exactly inspiring of terror, and God-damned annoying to hear about when all he wanted to do was sleep.

Or eat. They didn't feed him. His hands were chained above him, and he couldn't lie down or even sit properly.

The whole place moved, sometimes, drifting like a boat at anchor. His cell had to be on the _Prydwen_ , the gargantuan airship that carried all these metal-clad bastards into the Commonwealth. So much for the cavalry. The vault dweller was a bit crazy, sure, but not crazy enough to take on a Brotherhood airship.

Deacon had been stupid in several important ways, not least of which was making any plans that ended with "and then the crazy vault dweller will save my sorry ass." This was bad for the Railroad, because Deacon was a killer field agent and completely untested under interrogation. And he knew everything there was to know about the Railroad.

The next day the lights were brighter. That was the only difference. He might have been making that up. He tried yelling over the bee song. He wasn't loud enough.

On the third day, two Brotherhood soldiers beat the fuck out of him without saying a word, then shoved some vile foodlike paste down his throat. They left an open carton of dirty water in his shaking hand. With careful pouring skills honed over years of barroom eavesdropping, he got most of it in his mouth. They had yet to give him any clothes.

The fourth day, based on the shit pile as far into the corner as his chained arms would let him squat, the fucking bee song shut off. His eyes were closed anyway, and he almost fell asleep standing up, but something hit him in the chest and slammed him against the wall behind him. The pain in his healing burns wasn't breathtaking, but his scream was.

When he forced his aching eyes open, a dark-haired, strong-jawed Brotherhood woman stood in front of him. He lurched toward her, more hoping to put her head between his and the bright god-damned light than anything else, and she shoved him into the wall again. Something aerosolized sprayed over his face. Pain had him panting through his mouth, because the thugs from the day before broke his nose, and the sprayed stuff got on his teeth and into his lungs.

His heart was hammering on his ribs like a bored settler. There wasn't enough oxygen in the cell, but his lungs pulled in everything they could get. _What the hell is happening to me?_

"You weren't hiding out in that sewer," she said by way of introduction. "We've seen the kind of trash you people leave behind when you decide to 'live' somewhere, and there wasn't any of that. So what were you doing there, and how was the Institute involved?"

"I _was_ hiding." It hurt his dry throat to talk, but he didn't need another slamming. "I was hiding from the Institute. In the sewer."

"You're not a synth," the woman said.

"Genius," Deacon rasped. "The Brotherhead hype is all true." Amazingly, she didn't slap him around for that. He drew another breath over his tongue. It tasted like antifreeze smelled. "The Institute doesn't just kill synths, you know."

Shit. That was the wrong direction, closer to the Railroad, not further away. What did he say that for? And he could feel his face scrunching up around his confusion. That was wrong too. He'd never get through this if his expression didn't match his lies.

"Why would the Institute be after you and your friends?"

He needed an obvious reason why they'd do that. His brain was running on fumes. He couldn't think. _Shit._

He took too long, so she shoved him against the wall and held him there by the throat. She didn't even need power armor. Or wouldn't have, except his legs gave out. She let him hang from his wrists. The metal dug deep.

"Why is the Institute after you and your friends?" She sounded intrigued, now. No sympathy. No remorse.

He squeezed his eyes shut, turning the world orange-red under the bright light. "We saw them." That wasn't enough. His throat clicked when he swallowed. "We saw them doing something, but we didn't know what. In the street. There was a man with a coat. He saw _us._ " Yeah, that was more like what he was going for. Innocent bystanders mowed down by a courser. Somebody would buy that.

Not too fast, though. He had to bargain for it. There was only one logical thing to do with a half-starved prisoner who's seen your base and has nothing else worth saying.

"He's ready." Her voice was only quieter because she'd turned away from him. "Aspirants, take him out. I-3's set up."

His opening eyes revealed the same two Broodhoods (not right) who'd beaten him. "Can I have some more water? I can't talk without--"

They released his wrist restraints, but they didn't bother to catch him when he fell. At least he face-planted on a new surface, for some variety. Between dried piss and the dirt caked on it, the street was cleaner. His nose oozed blood over his dry lips. His shoulders ached so badly he wondered if they'd dislocated. They creaked when the Brootherhood (still wrong, but what was the right name?) hauled him off the floor. His heart pounded too hard for him to even daydream about sleep.

It was either a long walk or a short stumble followed by a drag. He came awake with a slap echoing in a small room, facing a wall while the rest of him leaned on it with the length of one arm. He panted through his teeth so hard that spit was flecking the air, which meant his mouth was wet enough to spit.

A carton of dirty water lay open and empty on the floor. He looked between the carton and the woman standing a couple inches from his bared throat. Just looked. Moving his head to face forward would be too much effort. "Got any more?"

"We're the best supplied organization in the Commonwealth." She was so calm it scared him. She'd know how much she could hurt him before she had to stop or kill him outright. "You can't have it, though. You'll just chug it and then throw it up. Now, a little food, you might manage."

"The one with the coat," and that was still too much too soon, what was he thinking? He shut his mouth and held his breath, since breathing through his nose was impossible.

"We know what that was about," she said, and Deacon sagged a little against the wall. She paced away from him, her nose wrinkled. He'd stink, at this point. "What I'm interested in is why _you_ were there. Your friends weren't all butchered. We found one body, and then your injured friend escaped us. So you aren't just scavengers, are you? You're something else." She kicked the water carton at him. It bounced off his shin. "What were you really doing there?"

Deacon's next best idea lacked convincing details. Who else could disappear into the city like a Railroad agent? A mercenary, maybe. He and Drummer Boy had been wearing civilian clothes and Drummer Boy had dropped his gun when his ammo ran out. Not merc gear, by a long shot. "Oh, you know, out for a stroll. Putting some radioactive color on that pale skin of ours."

She drove her knee into his crotch.

He would have passed out if he could. Instead he squeaked and slid down the wall to the floor. Agony throbbed between his legs in rhythm with his pounding heart. With his arms reaching for his bruised balls, there was nothing stopping her from kicking him in the chest. Something gave that shouldn't have and tore a pained cry out of his throat.

The water he'd drunk followed it out and onto the metal floor. "Damn everything," he croaked. And he hadn't meant to say that out loud. Whatever was keeping him awake also disconnected his mouth from his brain.

"What. Were. You. Doing?" the Brotherhood ( _that_ was it) woman asked.

"Before the synths came?" Deacon wheezed, to buy a little more time. His breaths all ended in sharp whines now. The merc thing could work, if he spun a sadder tale about them. "We were coming back from an escort job." He swallowed and wished desperately for something to wash his mouth out. Whiskey would be nice. "Got jumped on the way. Bunch of fucking Gunners. Got most of our gear before we fought them off. And then the fucking synths showed up."

He curled up on the floor. Looking done in would lend credence to the story, and keep his exhaustion from causing contradictory body language. Also, everything between his hips and skull _hurt_.

After a long moment, the Brotherhood interrogator waved the other two soldiers over. "Confirm it, then put him back in his cell."

They stalked toward him. "Hey! Wait! I told you what happened. What the hell can you confirm here?" Nobody answered. They just hit him.

 

Honestly, waking up in the cell surprised Deacon. He hadn't expected to wake up at all. And he really wished he could have slept longer, because every part of him hurt and the god damned bee song was still playing. One eye was stuck shut, but he got the other open. He was hanging by his wrists again, over a tacky splatter of blood and piss on the floor. Same bright light. Same loud song. And an empty water carton in the corner, from days ago.

His lips pulled away from his teeth. The grimace turned into dry sobs, quiet like an old man's cough. He didn't even have enough fluid in him to make tears. "Fuck," he moaned, the sound lost beneath the music. "Fuck me."

He got his feet under him eventually, and breathed in as deeply as his ribs would let him. "Come on, Deacon, hold it together," he said aloud, which was probably not a good sign for his ability to do that.

Peeling off enough fingernail to use as a lockpick seemed like a good idea, but he couldn't get one hand close enough to the other wrist. The song started over. Maybe the Brotherhood would kill him today, and he'd never have to hear that song again.

They thought they had everything he knew about the synths that raided HQ, because he had _stupidly_ told them a version of everything so soon. Well, he'd been drugged. The spray they'd hit him with made it too easy to talk.

The song started from the beginning. Time passed. The song played on.

But now there was an angry hum under the music, from laser rifles, not bees. He'd been here for days without hearing that, so it wasn't like they'd locked him up beside an indoor practice range. They had to be shooting because there was somebody to shoot at.

The song stopped, mid lyric. Just stopped. The guards shifted outside, maybe in response to the relieved laughter bubbling out of Deacon's parched throat.

"Huh, I wonder what turning that system off did," said the vault dweller. It was the most beautiful voice Deacon had ever heard, coming from somewhere down the hall. So he'd started hallucinating, finally. Well, he deserved that.

"You know, when I said Tom's plan was just crazy enough to work, I was being polite," said a second familiar voice. "But if we're not the only living things on this floor, I'd be shocked. Well, living. Ha."

"Nick." There was no way the synth would hear Deacon, even if he'd yelled instead of wheeze the name. Nick Valentine was on the airship, somewhere, and that meant the vault dweller really had come to save him. It had to mean that. "Help."

"Did you hear something?" Nick asked.

"I hear the radio," and yeah, that _was_ the vault dweller. Deacon would know that voice anywhere.

"Hey!" This time Deacon did manage to yell, despite the pain in his ribs on the inhale. "Hey, I'm over here."

The whine and thump of power armor shut him up fast. It was getting closer. He couldn't tell which direction it was coming from. That would just figure, if they executed him when friends were right around the corner. "Wait," Deacon said, couldn't stop himself saying. "Please. Please wait, they're almost here, please..."

The guards outside his cell collapsed in a hail of gunfire. One fell in front of the cell, on his back, cringing at nothing while he died. And then the vault dweller's massive, hodgepodge power armor suit stomped into view and peered through the cell door's small window. "See if you can pick this." Deacon should have recognized that canned tone the power armor gave voices. It had been so long since he could think straight...

"There we go," said Nick, and the vault dweller almost broke the hinges, slamming the door open.

"Never been so glad to see power armor in my life," Deacon said.

Nick took in Deacon's state for a beat, then stared around the cell. "Christ." The vault dweller just set about tearing the manacles apart with the power armor's strength, and catching Deacon when he fell.

The vault dweller actually came. And the one thing Deacon remembered from before all this was that he'd sworn to say his piece, at long last. "You know, there's something I've been wanting to tell you..."


End file.
